In the lounge seats in the next room along, lots of kids and mums are huddled around tables, colouring in pictures with crayons and eating biscuits. There’s the odd dad here and there, reading a paper, leaving the children to the mums. One little kid sees me as I go by and presses his grubby hand against the window, smiling like he knows me. He’s only about two or three. I wave back at him, and press my hand against the glass on the other side.
The mist off the sea is getting heavier all the time, and I’m really wet now, with no coat on. As I head back towards the café, I spot Mum and Andy through the salty grease of the window, bunched together into the corner sofa seat, her arm loosely hugging him into her, him looking warm and happy. They’re both smiling, and Mum’s unwrapping sugar lumps and passing them to him to eat. Mum looks more awake now, pretty even from this distance. I stand a while watching them like that, them on one side of the glass, me on the other.
Aunt Rachel is there to meet us when we step off the ferry at the other end. She’s tall and slim, in a long dark brown duffel coat and green wellies, with wiry, greying hair piled up in a loose bun. Although she’s scruffy, and even a bit older than Mum, she has a face like a film star, all cheek bones and bright eyes. She stands under a lamp post in the dark mist, lit up.
“Rachel,” Mum calls out, as we struggle down the walkway with our luggage.
Aunt Rachel sees us, raises her two gloved hands, and rushes over with a smile. She and Mum hug each other for ages.
“Oh my!” She stands back, looking us over. “Mary, you said they were handsome – but I had no idea!” She doesn’t kiss us, but holds out her hand to shake. “A pleasure, boys – and long overdue.”
Mum looks proud, and tearful.
“No Matthew, then?” asks Aunt Rachel. Mum throws me a look, like a warning. I look at my shoes, bend down, pretending to tighten up my laces.
“He’s gone …” tries Andy, but Mum cuts him off quick.
“He’s gone travelling,” she lies. She doesn’t know where he is. “Itchy feet – you know he’s seventeen now, Rachel!”
Rachel’s nose wrinkles, just for a moment, and her eyes dance over each of us. “Of course he has! I’m sure you must have told me already,” she laughs, brushing her hand down Mum’s arm. “We can’t keep them babies for ever, can we? Come on then, the wagon’s over here.” And she grabs a bag, slings it over her shoulder and strides towards a mud-spattered old Volvo parked on double yellow lines.
“Sorry about the dog hairs,” she apologises as she clears a tangle of rope and a gardening spade off the back seat to make room for us. “Ellie goes everywhere with me normally – the kids are looking after her at home – waiting for you to arrive!”
The moon is high now, and I’m starving. I’m not sure I want to meet these cousins, let alone spend Christmas with them. But Aunt Rachel is alright, so maybe they will be too. Andy nudges me, and pulls a face, holding his nose and blowing his cheeks out like balloons.
“Doggy-doo-doo,” he whispers, and even though I shove him off me, we both snigger. It really does stink of dogs in here.
The journey takes no time, and within half an hour we pull into a long muddy drive and head towards a huge house, in the middle of miles of lawn and fields. There are cows in the fields to one side, and white chickens peck freely in the gravel around the steps up to the front door. The moon lights up the driveway, showing the bright white of the house and its sparkling windows. The dog, Ellie, comes bounding down the driveway towards us, a big hairy old thing, a grey and white ball of fluff. When she reaches the car, she turns and trots alongside us, her tongue lolling out as she tries to see in our windows through her shaggy fringe. Andy holds his nose again, looking at me with rolling eyeballs, pointing at the dog and chuckling. I squeeze his knee so he shrieks.
“Those chickens shouldn’t be out in the drive. Someone’s left a door open,” Aunt Rachel grumbles, as she pulls up alongside the house. She bundles out of the driving seat as she pulls up the handbrake, calling, “George! George? Chickens!”
Mum gets out too, and Andy turns to me, wide-eyed. “Bloody ’ell, Jake. It’s a bloody mansion!”
I clip him round the head, “Watch your bloody language,” and we laugh, scrabbling out of the car to catch up with Mum.
Two children appear in the doorway, a boy and a girl. The boy, George, is lean-faced and small, like me. Across one eyebrow he has an angry scar that’s left a bald stripe through it, and his mousy hair hangs down the sides of his face, resting in small curls on his shoulders. George and I share the same birthday, Mum told us on the way here; same day, same year. Born hours apart. We’re practically twins, she said. He looks really pissed off to see us.
“I’ll do the chickens,” he mumbles, and he slopes off towards the darkness of the sheds.
I hear Mum’s sharp intake of breath as she watches George disappear down the side of the house. She puts her arm round my shoulder, bringing her hand up to brush my hair to one side. I shrug her off. I hate it when she does that.
“This is Katy,” says Aunt Rachel, and to Andy’s embarrassment, the girl skips down the steps to grab his hand. Katy is just ten, a bit younger than Andy, and it’s obvious she’s over the moon to have some big cousins come and stay. Her long dark plaits look as if they were done days ago as they’re all fuzzy and untidy like she’s slept in them over and over. She’s got freckles right across her face and a dimple on one side. She’s like one of those Little House on the Prairie girls, right down to the oversized rag doll dress and boots. Andy’s trying to play it cool like me, but I can see he’s desperate to get inside the house and poke about. The dog has flopped down in the middle of the drive, looking exhausted from the short burst of excitement.
“Ellie!” Katy calls to the dog, and we gather up our bags and trail inside the house to see where we’re staying.
The house has five bedrooms, two living rooms, an office, a huge square kitchen, and an extra bit that Aunt Rachel calls the Boot Room, where the shoes and coats are all kept along with the washing machine and the dog’s basket. In the Second World War, the house was used by British soldiers, and Aunt Rachel tells us that Andy and I will be sleeping in the officers’ room on the second floor. Andy wants to know if anyone actually got killed here, but Aunt Rachel says that there wasn’t any real fighting, that they just camped out here in case the Germans tried it on. All the rooms are tall and wide, and every one of them is a complete mess. There’s junk everywhere, spilling out of boxes and tucked behind doors and sofas. In one room, the office, there are seven boxes along one wall, every one of them packed with newspapers going back years. Aunt Rachel says that Uncle Robert was a hoarder, and she can’t bring herself to clear out his stuff just yet. It’s only been six months since he died, and she says it still doesn’t feel right to start interfering with his things.
The kitchen is gigantic, with a great big old-fashioned oven called a range, which throws out a toasty heat all day long. Strings of onion and garlic hang from the beams, and all the pots and pans are on show, hanging from hooks above. The weird thing is, you can see everything – there are hardly any cupboards to hide stuff away in. Aunt Rachel says it’s a working kitchen; that everything has to be where she can see it and use it. It’s cluttered and loud looking, and I love it. It makes me want to cook. Aunt Rachel doesn’t fuss over us, just tells us to go off and explore while she and Mum knock up some dinner. As I disappear up the hallway, I hear the sound of a cork popping from a bottle.
Andy ran off with Katy pretty much as soon as we arrived, and George hasn’t come back from feeding the chickens. So I’m free to wander about the house as much as I want. Ellie’s sticking with me, sniffing along by my side, or looking up at me for a stroke. They said she’s an Old English Sheepdog – the proper name for a Dulux dog. She looks a bit daft, because Aunt Rachel insists on tying her fringe back with one of Katy’s pink grips. But the best thing is, she’s got one brown eye and one bright whitish blue eye, just like David Bowi
e. It makes her look a bit alien, and really cool. Her brown eye is exactly the same shade of brown as Dad’s eyes. Exactly the same. I’m glad that she’s decided to stay with me; it makes me feel less like a snoop when I check out all the rooms. I mean, she’s got a right to wander about in her own house.
Mine and Andy’s room is right up at the top of the house, and has a linking door to Mum’s. Our single beds are made up with puffy, soft duvets and pillows. I could tell Mum liked them earlier, when she sat down on the bed and stroked them, gently squeezing the feathers under her fingers.
She said, “We’ll get duvets for your beds soon, Jakey – much better than sheets and blankets.”
I felt bad about the ferry then.
I decide to unpack my things now, get them into some sort of order, so I know where everything is when I need it. There’s a chest of drawers in between the two single beds, and I give myself the top two, leaving the bottom two for Andy. I lay out my pants and socks in the top one, which is thin, and my trousers and tops in the second, deeper one. I already wrapped up the presents for Mum and Andy, when we were back home, so that they wouldn’t know what they were if they found them. I take them out of my bag now, and carefully slide them behind my underwear. I wonder if I need to get something for Rachel and everyone now. I haven’t got much money with me – most of it’s back home, in my bike light fund. Mum might have got them something, I suppose. I refold my pyjamas and put them under my pillow, then lie down for a minute to see how it feels. Our beds are directly under a sloping window, built into the roof, so we can go to sleep looking at the stars. It feels good in this small room, and I close my eyes and imagine being alone here, completely alone with Miss Terry. She would be sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing the hair across my forehead with her long white fingers. She won’t call me Jakey, it’s too childish. Shall I read to you, Jake? Slide along, Jake, make room for me, she’d say, and we’d both move under the covers, bunched up real close where the bed’s so small. Do you know about the Trojan War, Jake? she’ll ask me. Tell me, I’ll whisper in her ear.
Ellie’s snuffling at the door; I must have shut her out when I came up here. I sit up, feeling red-faced and flustered, and stumble over to the door, readjusting myself as I go. I try not to feel irritated at Ellie, but I am. She looks up at me with sad eyes, so I haven’t got any choice but to forgive her and give her a playful ruffle. I take a pee in the loo next door, and decide to inspect the rest of the house while it’s still quiet.
The stairs down from the attic rooms are dark wood and narrow, twisting. Ellie scrabbles and lurches behind me, too big for such a small and slippery staircase. There are creepy old portraits all the way down the walls; probably ancestors. On the next floor are all the family’s bedrooms, plus a big bathroom and playroom. I check out the playroom, and find floor to ceiling shelves straining under the weight of every board game you can imagine. Monopoly, Cluedo, Guess Who, Yahtzee, dominoes, jigsaws, Tumbling Chimps, Operation. There are posters on all the walls, and loads of little round grey spots where Blu-tack has pulled the paint away. One of the walls is painted black, and it’s covered with pink and blue chalk drawings and writing. There’s a big trunk underneath the window, full of bears and plastic dolls, some of which have had their hair cut close to the head, so they look like naked chemo patients. The carpet is filthy, and it seems they’re allowed to eat and drink up here, judging by the crumbs on the floor and the purply-coloured stains on the carpet. There’s a really old-looking rocking horse by the wall, and an electronic keyboard plugged in and ready to play. There’s even a full-size drum kit set up in the far corner.
“Whadda you want?” growls George, in a near whisper, right up close to my ear.
He scares the life out of me and I spin round, making this unexpected squeaky noise. I must look really stupid and scared, because he snorts a laugh at me, then picks up his drum sticks and sits at the seat, cocky. I think I’m meant to be impressed. Ellie flops down on the floor next to George, laying her head on her paws with a huff.
“Go on,” I say, “give us a demonstration then.”
George sneers at me, scratching behind his ear with his drum stick.
“So, what’re you into then?” he asks, like he’s asking me for a fight. “Music? What’re you into?”
I look at him blankly. “Dunno, loads of stuff. Yeah, I’ve got quite broad tastes really,” I answer, thinking I sound knowledgeable enough.
“Like?” he pushes on. He’s really scoffing now, like I’m some pansy who’s into Abba or something. I try to stop my eyes from checking out the band posters stuck up around his drum kit.
“Like all sorts. What about you, then? Who’re you into?”
He snorts again, shaking his head, then starts drumming, first slowly, staring me out with each beat. The more he stares at me, the more I want to laugh in his stupid face. I wonder which one of us was born first, which of us is older than the other by a few hours. Me, let it be me. His drumming starts to build up, faster and harder, and it’s really quite good, and as it builds, he starts shaking his head rhythmically, his floppy hair moving back and forth across his eyes that he won’t tear away from me. I can’t keep this staring up much longer; my eyes are starting to water. He looks like a madman, some weird, mad animal. And then, I don’t know why, but I start to dance in this crazy, jazzy way – still stuck to his eyes – jigging about like an elf, mooning my face up to his, wheeling my arms by my sides, lifting my knees like a string puppet. And I never lose eye contact.
He’s drumming and drumming, and I’m leaping and yelping, ta-ta-ta-boom-ta-ta-ta-boom-ta-ta-ta-boom, and I’m laughing like a loon, and he’s swinging his girlish hair, starey-starey, and then he’s throwing down his drum sticks into a clatter of cymbals, screaming, “Alright, you fucking Joey Deacon nut-nut! You win!”
He’s sitting there with his cymbals spinning like plates, hands on his hips, shaking his floppy-hair-head and grinning at me. Then he steps out from behind his drum kit and offers me his hand. I grin back at him and shake his hand, feeling sweaty and bold.
“Food,” says George, when the bongs ring out downstairs. It’s the first time I’ve ever been in a house so big that you need to sound a gong to tell your kids to come down for tea.
“You’ll soon see,” he adds, carefully sliding Blue Monday back into its 12-inch sleeve, checking the disc for dust as it slips into place, “she’s completely mad. Not only since Dad – just mad, naturally.”
“No way,” I say, “I think she seems really cool. Really together.” I pause, feeling his silence. “I mean, is she really, though? A bit mad?”
He shrugs, gets to his feet, and rests his hand on the doorknob. “Nah, she’s alright. Just a bit annoying at times.”
We head down the stairs, to hear Aunt Rachel yelling, “Boys!” and banging the gong again. Down in the kitchen the heat and smell of the cooking is like a magic hunger potion, and my stomach growls painfully. It’s nearly nine o’clock, and I’ve only had a hot chocolate since lunch. We all help to carry the food from the kitchen into the dining room, where Katy and Andy are laying out the knives and forks. It’s noisy with chatter and clatter, and they’ve got a fire going in here as well as the front room, so it smells smoky and alive. Ellie’s wagging about, begging as we put the bowls out on the table.
“Leave it! Ellie! Leave it!” yells Katy, who tells us that she’s in charge of dog training. Ellie is only two, but it’s hard to believe, as she already looks like such an old lady with all that grey fluff around her. Ellie doesn’t seem to take much notice of Katy, and just carries on weaving in and out around the table and chairs until we all sit down.
“OK, do we do grace?” asks Aunt Rachel when she comes in, flinging her apron over the back of her seat. The chairs are all the same, high-backed and carved in dark wood, to go with the huge table. The table looks really ancient, like an old knights’ table, with deep scratches and ring marks all over the surface.
“Oh – George! Candle
s, let’s do candles, shall we? Yes, let’s do candles!”
George pulls a lighter out of his jeans, and leans in to light the four red candles in the middle of the table. He shoves it back into his jeans pocket with his thumb, like he’s done it a million times before. He clocks me watching him and smirks.
“So, do we?” Rachel asks Mum. “Do grace?”
Mum laughs, shakes her head. “Not since home, Rachel. You?”
“No bloody chance! OK, well, for old times’ sake then: For what we are about to receive, may your stomachs be truly grateful. Amen. Tuck in, everyone!”
She’s done jacket potatoes, and there are bowls of chilli, and baked beans, and grated cheese, and salad, and sausages and beefburgers. Katy walks around the table pouring Ribena into our huge wine glasses, while Aunt Rachel pours real wine into hers and Mum’s. When all our glasses are full, Aunt Rachel raises her glass.
“To family, absent and near. To new friendships – and old ones. To all of us in this old wreck of a house. Bottoms up!”
“Bottoms up!” we all cheer, and we plough into the food like a swarm of locusts. There’s no best behaviour to worry about, everyone just talks across the table at each other, and leans over to get what they need without having to say excuse me or thank you every time. It’s not how I’d have thought people in houses like this would be. Mum and Rachel are chatting away, finishing sentences for each other, patting one another as they laugh. Mum gets out her cigarettes, and George leaps up to offer her a light. He doesn’t just give her the lighter, he actually lights it for her. She bats her eyelashes at him and smiles, brushing his sleeve with her fingers. He looks chuffed to bits with himself as he slumps back down in his chair, twirling the lighter between his fingers and thumb.
Glasshopper Page 5